Category: Children Publisher: CreateSpace
ISBN-10: 1467934674
Type: Fiction
Pages: 60
Copyright: Nov 8, 2011
ISBN-13: 9781467934671
The third book in the Adventures of Norbert and Friends. Find out what the silly old horse and his pals get up to over the festive season!
Norbert the silly old horse and his best friend, Colin the Cuckoo, have never received a gift at Christmas time.
With a little help from Delilah, the pretty pony from the next field, they devise a cunning plan which will see Colin (albeit reluctantly) embark on a daring raid into the very depths of Farmer Finbar’s house; once inside, he must write a list to Father Christmas and send it up the chimney.
Farmer Finbar, meanwhile, has problems of his own; he is sick and tired of spending Christmas alone and is determined to enjoy this year’s festivities in the company of Mrs Muckleton, the love of his life. She, however, seems more interested in Finbar’s deadly rival, Old Joe Baxter. The last thing the grumpy old farmer needs is an unexpected encounter with a mangy, overweight cuckoo…
Far away, hurtling through the starry winter skies with his team of reindeer, Father Christmas is busy delivering gifts to all of the good children of the world, blissfully unaware of the chaos which will ensue when his flight path takes him directly over Norbert’s field…
Will Colin succeed in his daring mission? Will Norbert and Delilah ever receive their Christmas gifts? Will Finbar win the heart of his beloved? And will Father Christmas and Rudolph survive their first encounter with Norbert and his crazy chums?
Excerpt
Chapter 1
It was Christmas Eve. Norbert, the foolish old carthorse, stood in his usual spot under the old sycamore tree in Finbar’s field, shivering slightly as the winter wind ruffled his long, tangled mane. He liked standing beneath this particular tree partly because it was the only one in the field, but mostly because it was home to his best and only buddy, Colin the Cuckoo.
“Colin?” he whinnied, anxiously peering up through the tangled, bare branches.
“What is it now, Norbert?” Usually there are no cuckoos in Britain at Christmas time as they fly south to warmer countries to avoid the cold winters. However, for a cuckoo, Colin was no spring chicken and he had long since given up on these long-haul flights; he simply hadn’t the energy these days. Provided he was tucked up in his nest with a good book, Colin was happy to enjoy his retirement in peace.
“Is it Christmas Eve today?”
“I believe it is, Norbert,” the bird clucked irritably. “Not, of course, that it has any relevance to you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that, unless you happen to be a turkey, Christmas has no significance whatsoever to animals like us.”
“Oh.”
“Indeed, Norbert, I would go so far as to say that it is almost as irrelevant as you are. Now please leave me in peace whilst I finish my Sudoku.”
“Does that mean I won’t get a present this year?” As ever, Norbert was slow to take a hint.
There was a violent rustling in the treetop before Colin’s beaky face appeared from among the branches.
“For heaven’s sake, Norbert! Every year we have this same conversation! Every year, you ask me whether you will be receiving a Christmas present and my answer to your question this year is exactly the same as it was last year...”
“Oh?”
“No, Norbert – you will not be getting a present! Unfortunately, neither will I. The only animals with any hope of receiving a gift over Christmas are those which live in houses with their owners. Pets, I believe they are sometimes called.”
“Delilah always gets a present and she doesn’t live in a house.” Delilah was the pretty pony from the next field for whom Norbert had long harboured the deepest affection.
“Yes, but she doesn’t get it from Father Christmas. She is showered with gifts all through the year by Jenny, the little girl to whom she belongs. Spoilt rotten if you ask me.”
“Do you think my owner will give me a present, Colin?”
“Norbert – you know full well that your owner, Farmer Finbar, is the meanest man ever to have lived. You can rest assured that he won’t be dishing out any presents this Christmas to you or anyone else!”
*
Yet, even as the cuckoo uttered these damning words, Farmer Finbar could be observed sitting at his kitchen table, his huge, hairy fist gripping the remnants of a stubby pencil as he tried, for the first time in many years, to write a Christmas card. Lack of practice, however, was making it an extremely difficult task and it had taken him almost half-an-hour already. Picking his nose with a grubby finger, he frowned as he reviewed the sum of his efforts thus far:
“To Mrs Muckleton,” it read.
Though it was undoubtedly a strong opening, the fat old farmer was growing increasingly frustrated at his inability to bring the thing to a satisfactory conclusion. Rising from his chair, he paced to and fro, muttering away to himself, his face a grim mask of concentration. Mrs Muckleton was a forceful lady with a pear-shaped figure and a face like a hatchet. A widow, she lived on a neighbouring farm and was, for reasons only he truly understood, the love of Finbar’s life. This year, he vowed, he would not be spending the festivities alone in the usual manner; he would be spending them with Mrs Muckleton. Having softened her up with a slap-up Christmas dinner, he planned to lure his beloved beneath a sprig of mistletoe, strategically pinned above the living room door and once there, to ask for her hand in marriage. As soon as she had accepted, he would pop down to the jewellers in the village with the ten-pound note he had been keeping beneath the mantelpiece clock and purchase the necessary wedding ring.
Desperate for inspiration, he trudged over to the kitchen window and looked out. What was that? Across the valley, he discerned a set of vehicle headlights moving steadily up the windy lane that led to the Muckleton Farm.
“Garn!” he roared. “That’ll be Old Joe Baxter paying her a visit!” Finbar’s deadly rival had been competing for Mrs Muckleton’s affections all through the summer, using a series of mouth-watering barbeques to lure her to his farm. Rumour had it that these barbeques had been achieving the desired effect and Old Joe Baxter was widely tipped in the village as the hot favourite in the race for Mrs Muckleton’s hand in marriage. Spurred into action by his jealousy, Finbar grabbed the card, scrawled the words “Happy Christmas from Finbar” on the bottom and pulled on his big, black wellington boots.
Ten minutes later, he was chugging up the lane to the Muckleton Farm, his rusty old tractor belching smoke all the way; sure enough, when he arrived at his destination, there was Old Joe Baxter’s shiny new model already parked outside. His chubby cheeks flushed with envy, Finbar waddled across the drive and knocked loudly on the front door.
Chapter 2.
“Colin?” Frowning up into the leafless branches of the sycamore tree at the crown of twisted twigs that formed his friend’s nest, Norbert was looking even more confused than normal.
“Yes Norbert?”
“How does Father Christmas know what all the children want for their presents?”
“If I tell you, will you promise to leave me in peace for the rest of the evening?”
“Ok Colin.”
“Well – if you must know, they write a list of the items they require on a piece of paper and send it up a chimney.”
“Oh?”
“These bits of paper then float up into the sky, eventually finding their way to Father Christmas. Having carried out the relevant checks as to whether or not each child has been sufficiently well-behaved throughout the year, he then sets his elves to work preparing the gifts. And now, my clod-hopping chum, I must bid you goodnight.”
“Colin?”
“Grrrrrrrr!”
“If I wrote to Father Christmas, do you think he would bring me a present?” There was a pause, during which the cuckoo descended clumsily from his nest and perched on a branch that hung to Norbert’s eye level. From this new vantage point, he eyed the horse keenly.
“Norbert – I am going to ask you three questions. Are you ready?”
“Yes Colin.”
“Question one: can you write?”
“No Colin.”
“Question two: even if you could write, do you have at your disposal a pencil and a piece of paper?”
“No Colin.”
“Finally, even if you could write and had a pencil and paper, can you see a chimney anywhere in the field?”
“No Colin.”
“Now then, Norbert,” the cuckoo continued. “Bearing in mind the answers you have given, can you see any potential obstacles in your plan to write to Father Christmas?”
“No Colin.”
“I see. In that case, Norbert, I fear that there is nothing to be gained by continuing with this conversation. And so, once again, I must bid you goodnight.”
Norbert, however, was not prepared to let the matter drop.
“I know we haven’t got any paper or a pencil,” he pleaded “but I thought you could pop up to the farm, borrow them from Farmer Finbar and then send the note up his chimney for me.”
The suggestion made his friend reel with horror, almost sending him tumbling from his perch. If you are familiar with Norbert’s earlier adventures, you will know what happened the last time Colin ventured to up to the farm; on that occasion, he had been endeavouring to obtain a toothbrush and toothpaste with which to clean Norbert’s teeth. The resulting confrontation with Finbar had almost cost the cuckoo his life and he was in no hurry to relive the experience.
“Great Scott!” Colin exclaimed.
“Surely you cannot already have forgotten what happened in the bathroom of terror?”
“But you wouldn’t need to go into the bathroom this time,” the dopey old horse persisted.
“Norbert - this nonsense must cease! There is no power on God’s Earth that would induce me to return to that farmhouse. Now, if you don’t mind...”
“Cooey Norbert!” Both Norbert and Colin instantly recognised the melodious voice as that which belonged to Delilah. “Can I come over and see you for a minute?”
Unlike Norbert, who was somewhat out-of-condition, Delilah was an expert jumper due to her regular appearances at the local gymkhana, and she had a habit of vaulting over the five-bar gate which connected their fields whenever she needed something.
“Of course, Delilah,” Norbert beamed.
“Hello Colin,” she crooned as she cleared the gate with ease and cantered across to the foot of the sycamore tree. “I didn’t know you were here.”
“Of course I’m here,” the cuckoo snapped. “This tree happens to be my home, you know!” Colin did not much care for Delilah and believed that his superior intellect rendered him immune to her feminine charms; little did he know how sorely this was about to be tested...
Meet Girdy, a delightfully spooky witch with green stringy hair, a bumpy nose, and a knack for mischief! Alongside her eerie but lovable family—Momma Mummy, Daddy Gargoyle, and her mischievous brother Goblin—Girdy embraces her wonderfully weird world
